The Broken Mother

by Thomas Fincham

  Earl may have owned a Smith and Wesson 9mm, which was the same weapon used to commit the terrible crime at Emily’s Place, but that did not mean he was the killer.

  Holt and Fisher were now leaning toward the possibility that perhaps someone at the rally Earl was involved in had indeed stolen Earl’s weapon. Earl was adamant that he had the weapon on him prior to going to the rally, and that it was gone when he returned home.

  They drove to the Men’s Support Alliance. They found Tom Manning in his office. Manning was cradling a telephone to his ear. He saw them and motioned for them to take a seat.

  “I understand, George,” he said into the receiver, “but it’s not a conspiracy against you. The judge is not scheming with your wife to screw you. During your last hearing, there were certain requirements you had to meet in order to get your visitation rights to your children reinstated. One of them was that you had to stay away from drugs and alcohol. You were pulled over for driving under the influence. And of course, your ex-wife is going to use that against you. What else did you expect her to do?” Manning listened patiently. He then said in a frustrated tone, “George, I have people in my office waiting to speak to me. We’ll discuss this later. Goodbye.” He hung up the phone and sighed. “Some people don’t understand that I’m not their therapist or lawyer. While I don’t mind listening to their complaints, I don’t have any power to help them. I can nudge them in a certain direction, but that’s all.”

  “Maybe they think you can,” Fisher said. “You are, after all, advocating for men’s rights. And as you have aptly told us, men suffer just as much as women.”

  Fisher could see in Manning’s eyes that he sensed she was taking a stab at him and the organization. And he would be correct. Fisher was still unconvinced of having such an organization. She believed that, historically, men had always had it better than women. Once upon a time, they had full control over their household finances. They had control over a woman’s reproductive health. They even had control on women’s right to vote.

  Manning smiled. “Not all cases are like George’s. There are genuine stories of men suffering because of how the laws favor one gender over the other.”

  “Laws have always favored one gender over the other. And you know that to be true,” she replied. “Regardless of what you want others to believe.”

  Holt put his hand up to put an end to the conversation. “We are not here to argue gender politics. We are here to ask about the members of your organization.”

  Manning turned to him. “What would you like to know?”

  “Their names.”

  Manning let out a laugh. “We have over four hundred members just in Milton.”

  “That may be so,” Holt said. “We would like to know their names.”

  Manning’s voice turned hard. “Why?”

  “We would like to ask them a few questions.”

  Manning shook his head. “I know what you want to do. You want to run a background check on them to see if there are any red flags. I can tell you, our members are not mass killers. They are good, law-abiding folks who happen to be part of an organization that many in society deem unnecessary.” He stared at Fisher.

  “We just need to verify certain things,” Holt said.

  “Such as?”

  Holt could not say. He was not even sure if anyone of them had taken Earl’s weapon. Right now, they had a theory, which put them in a precarious situation. They needed information, but they had no power to compel anyone to give it to them voluntarily.

  Manning said, “I’m sorry, but I’ve already helped you enough. If you want the names of this organization’s members, then you’ll need to get a warrant.”

  FIFTY-NINE

  Callaway left Erie Lake and drove fifty miles west to Manchester. He stopped at a gas station and asked for directions. He then drove another eight miles and pulled up on a lot that was next to a large field.

  There was nothing but grass and hay as far as his eyes could see.

  A Honda Pilot was parked outside a tiny house with a red chimney. He walked up and rang the doorbell.

  A man answered the door. He was wearing a light sweater, black khakis, and socks. His hair was curly, and he had stubble on his cheeks.

  Ian Parsons did not look like he had aged one bit from the photos Callaway had seen of him in the newspapers all those years ago. However, there was a hint of sadness in his eyes, which could have only come from losing a son at such a young age.

  “Can I help you?” Parsons asked.

  Callaway did not feel like lying to him. He told him who he was and why he was there.

  “You’re a private investigator?” Parsons said, squinting.

  “I am.”

  “And Hope hired you?”

  “She did.”

  Ian looked inside the house. Callaway could hear a children’s program playing on the television.

  “We’ll talk outside,” Parsons said. “Let me get my shoes.”

  Callaway waited on the porch, then Parsons joined him.

  They walked a short distance from the house before Parsons asked, “How is Hope doing?”

  “She seems fine to me,” Callaway replied.

  “That’s good,” Parsons said, looking down at his shoes. “I haven’t seen Hope since she showed up at our house unannounced.”

  “She mentioned your wife got a restraining order against her.”

  Parsons shook his head. “I tried to talk her out of it, but with Hope’s history, I couldn’t blame her for what she did.”

  Callaway was surprised that the judge had not ordered Hope to stay away from children in general. Maybe the judge believed that it was her illness that had caused her to act the way she did, and that with medication, she would not be a threat to herself or others.

  Prior to the events at Erie Lake, Hope had never been violent before. Even in the strongest grips of schizophrenia, she never lashed out at anyone.

  Callaway said, “What can you tell me about Hope?”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Who was she before everything fell apart?”

  Parsons looked up at the sky. Gray clouds had started to form, and the smell of rain was in the air. His eyes turned misty. “She was a wonderful person. We met in college. I was studying anthropology and she was studying sociology. She became a dental hygienist, and I went on to become a dentist. We had planned to open our own clinic. We were going to call it Parsons Family Dentistry. But Hope’s condition just got worse.”

  “Did you know she had an illness prior to getting married?” Callaway asked.

  “I did, and I didn’t care,” Parsons replied. “I knew who she was as a person, and I was not going to let her condition get in the way of us being together.”

  Callaway sensed from Parsons’s voice that he still cared for her.

  “As a medical student, I knew science had made great progress in mental health. I

  always believed, if treated, she could live a normal life. I guess I was wrong.”

  “What was she like as a mother?”

  His eyes suddenly lit up. “She was great with Noah. He could do no wrong in her eyes. Even when he threw massive tantrums as a preschooler, she never scolded him. She wanted to be his best friend. It was left to me to punish him.” He covered his face with his hands. “As a parent, it was my duty to discipline him, but now that he is gone, I regret raising my voice at him.” Parsons rubbed his eyes. “I now have two daughters. I love them more than anything in the world. But I miss my son. People said he looked just like me when I was his age. I would have loved to see what he looked like when he got older.”

  Callaway was not sure how to respond to that, so he changed the subject.

  “You’ve got a nice place here.” The sun had cast an orange glow over the fields, turning them into a sight as beautiful as a painting.

  “After what happened to Noah, I can’t get myself to go near a lake or even a beach. I prefer land now. My daughters run freely
in the fields. We even camp out during the summer,” Ian said with a forced smile.

  Ian Parsons was doing everything he could to create new memories with his new family. But the loss of a child was something he would carry with him forever.

  “Do you believe Hope was capable of hurting your son?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I believe. What matters is that the judge believed she was. It’s something I have to accept.”

  SIXTY

  Fisher stormed back to her desk and sat down. She crossed her arms over her chest and fumed.

  The warrant they had requested was denied by their supervisor. He was not about to give them a blanket warrant so they could investigate several hundred potential suspects.

  Fisher knew before she went into their supervisor’s office that there was a slim chance of them getting what they wanted, but she hoped that after she’d made her case, her supervisor might be convinced to sign off on it.

  She exhaled.

  No such luck.

  Her supervisor was correct when he said it was a matter of an entire group whose rights to privacy would be violated just because they belonged to a certain organization. The Men’s Support Alliance was not deemed a hate group by the police or any other government entity. Their views may not be popular, but as citizens of the United States of America, the First Amendment guaranteed them the right to free speech.

  As far as the law was concerned, they had done nothing wrong. If Holt and Fisher could prove otherwise, then he would approve their request.

  Fisher also knew that even after getting their supervisor’s consent, it was still a long shot that a judge would authorize such a warrant. It would set the wrong precedent. The police should not have sweeping powers to go after an entire organization—that was not a threat to society—and its members could not be subjected to discrimination based on their affiliation to that group.

  Holt calmly walked back to his desk and sat down. He had an I-told-you-so look on his face.

  Fisher reached down into her coat pocket and pulled out a clear plastic baggie. Inside was the pamphlet from the Men’s Support Alliance they had found on Emily Riley’s desk.

  “This should have been enough proof that someone from that organization was trying to send a message,” she said.

  Holt put his elbows on the desk and leaned forward. “What kind of message?”

  “That you don’t mess with men.”

  Holt almost chuckled. “That’s a bit farfetched, don’t you think?”

  “There is a link between this organization and what happened at Emily’s Place.”

  “If there is, then what is it?” Holt said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “And until we do, we can’t go around poking our noses where they don’t belong.”

  Fisher balled her fists in frustration.

  Holt said, “Let me ask you this. If you had committed a crime, would you leave anything linking it back to you?”

  “I would if I were making a statement.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Statement?”

  “Political.”

  It was Holt’s turn to cross his arms over his chest. “Do explain, Detective Fisher.”

  “Politicians help create laws. And recent laws have all been created to protect women more so than men.”

  “Might I remind you, men also vote for those very politicians who create those laws. So, they are complicit in what is going on.”

  “Maybe men don’t have a choice,” Fisher countered. “They know they have to elect these politicians even if they don’t agree with their views.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “It’s the most politically correct thing to do. In reality, men don’t want women in the workforce. It’s more people they have to compete with to get ahead.”

  “I like having you as my partner,” Holt said, “and it may sound sexist, but I find you visually more appealing to look at than a man.”

  Fisher laughed. “I don’t know if I should be flattered or offended.”

  “I’m merely making a statement. My first partner was a loud mouth who drank a lot and had the worst body odor imaginable. I could not stand working with him.”

  “So, you’re saying I smell nice,” Fisher said.

  “You most certainly do,” Holt said. “But we’re getting off topic. If what you say is true—this killer was trying to make a political statement—then his actions would have the opposite effect.”

  “How so?’

  “By killing women, more laws would be created to protect them. The killer would be harming his cause rather than promoting it.”

  Fisher was silent.

  “I still think we are looking at it the wrong way,” Holt said.

  Fisher did not look convinced.

  SIXTY-ONE

  Callaway drove back from Ian Parsons’s house with a cloud over his head. He could hear the anguish in Parsons voice and see it in his eyes as he spoke of his son’s death. Callaway could not imagine anything happening to Nina. He was not sure how he would go on with his life after such a tragedy.

  Parsons had found a way to move on. He had a new wife and two children to keep him occupied, but he still had a giant hole in his heart. You never get over the loss of a child.

  He pulled up in front of a restaurant. He was hungry, and he needed to see a familiar face.

  He spotted Joely behind the counter. She had a telephone cradled to her neck. Sometimes she pinch hit as manager because Bill, the owner, hardly came to the restaurant anymore. He was close to seventy, and was in poor health. He was looking to sell the restaurant. Callaway knew that Joely had shown interest in buying the place, but she was also sensible enough to know that it was one thing to work at a restaurant, and another thing entirely to run and manage it. As Callaway made his way to his favorite table, he could hear her talking to someone on the line. She was placing a large order of meat.

  When she was done, she came over to him. She looked worn out.

  He said to her, “You should get paid extra for doing Bill’s job.”

  She sighed. “I know, but Bill’s always been good to me. When I was struggling, he would let me take food home from the kitchen. He would also give me extra hours when I needed the money, or let me take time off when Josh would get sick.” She paused and then said, “Any updates on my case?”

  “I had a talk with Dean.”

  “You did?” she said.

  He nodded. “He doesn’t seem like a bad guy.”

  “Like I told you before, he can be the sweetest guy when he wants to be. Why do you think I married him?”

  That’s what Patti says about me, he thought.

  “Don’t worry, I’m still working on it,” Callaway said. “I’m sure I’ll find something.”

  SIXTY-TWO

  Callaway was halfway through his meal when a shadow fell over him. He looked up and smiled.

  “Mind if I join you?” Fisher asked.

  “Be my guest.”

  She sat across from him. Normally, Joely would scowl whenever she saw Fisher. After all, Fisher had once arrested Callaway in this very restaurant.

  “What can I get you?” Joely asked.

  “I’ll have what he’s having,” Fisher replied, referring to Callaway’s chicken pot pie.

  “One special coming up,” Joely said and walked away.

  Callaway put his knife and fork down. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I thought I’d come and see what my favorite private investigator was up to.”

  His eyes were slits. “Why do I get the feeling that either I’m in trouble or that you need my help?”

  Callaway and Fisher had gone out on one date. Fisher was the first person to tell him that he still harbored feelings for Patti. Callaway denied he felt that way, like he always did, but now he appreciated her candor and friendship.

  Fisher’s meal came and she dug into it. “First, what are you working on right now?”

  Callawa
y hesitated.

  Fisher said, “It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me.”

  Callaway sighed. “Hope Parsons wants me to look into her case.”

  Fisher gave him a puzzled look. “Wasn’t she charged for murdering her son?”

  “She drowned him.”

  “Wasn’t she convicted for it?”

  “She was, and she spent eight years between a mental institute and a correctional facility.”

  “So, how can you help her if she’s already been charged and convicted?” Fisher asked.

  Callaway shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Fisher shook her head. “I’m glad I’m not a private investigator. I don’t know if I could work on all the complicated cases people would want me to look into.”

  “I heard you got a complicated case yourself,” Callaway said.

  She took a deep breath. “What happened at Emily’s Place is something I’m never going to forget.”

  “And neither should anyone else,” Callaway said. “They did amazing work for the community.”

  “They did, and that’s why I need your help.”

  Callaway’s eyebrows shot up. “I knew it! You want my help.”

  “I do.”

  “Is Holt all right with this?”

  Holt and Callaway had a history. Holt thought private investigators got in the way of real police work, and Callaway thought Holt was too thick-headed when it came to his opinion of others who were not in law enforcement. Their relationship had thawed over time, especially after Holt had helped Callaway avoid a lengthy prison sentence.

  “Holt doesn’t know,” Fisher said.

  “Okay, now this is interesting.”

  She removed a plastic baggie from her pocket and placed it on the table.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “It’s a pamphlet for an organization. Have you heard of the Men’s Support Alliance?”

  He shook his head.

  “They promote men’s rights.”